


asPen craYons

by orphan_account



Category: My Candy Love
Genre: Angst, Angsty Schmoop, Cliche, Disjointed, Gen, Illnesses, POV Second Person, Platonic Relationships, Recreational Drug Use, Terminal Illnesses, Wangst, crap writing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-04
Updated: 2016-05-04
Packaged: 2018-06-06 09:28:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,967
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6748315
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Four months is not a long time. It's a blip, the blink of an eye, the brush of a warm breeze.//cross-posted.</p>
            </blockquote>





	asPen craYons

**Author's Note:**

> Cross-posted from my fanfiction. I don't like the idea of putting works here because AO3 is for people with quality fics, but unfortunately upon rereading fanfiction's guidelines I realize many of my works violate them. This one included. So I'll be cross-posting more when I have time.
> 
> This was almost something completely different, like crazy different with forests and giant squids and nudists, but then I just...Bah, I dunno. It's still crap. Complete, utter, worthless crap. Disjointed as fuck. Falls into continuity with like, four other of my craps, though like, not in order.

Four months is not a long time. It's a blip, the blink of an eye, the brush of a warm breeze.

How much can you do in four months?

Not as much as you want to, unfortunately. This you know.

Even though it's been hours, you're not surprised to see Castiel is still in the waiting room, smoking. Apparently staff are too busy to tell him to stop because there's a puddle of crushed out butts and ashes under his chair. He just about knocks that chair over when he sees you, jumps up like someone jabbed him with a pin and scrambles over.

"Are you okay? No one is telling me anything! What's wrong?" He gets it all out in one rapid breath, impressive given that he's been chain smoking all night. His gaze darts between you and Leigh like a frightened wild animal.

Dishonesty is generally something you look down on. It is beneath you, you have integrity. You scarcely make exceptions.

"It seems I'm anemic," you say sheepishly. "Vitamin deficiency. It's mild, Castiel, don't worry."

Leigh is staring at you. You don't even glance back at him, but you can feel his eyes drilling into your skull. No matter, they can't take out the problem growing inside.

"You passed out cold in the middle of the sidewalk." Castiel completely deflates. "You scared the shit out of me." He squeezes your shoulder and his hands almost stop trembling.

"I'm sorry." For lying.

"Shit, no, just...Sorry I didn't catch you. I didn't really see it coming." He frowns, toes the tile and leaves scuff marks. "But you're okay?"

You hug him. This is the third time you've done that. The first time he hugged you and it was more like clutching you, claiming it was for your protection during that walk through the haunted house he'd called lame right before Rosa presented you with tickets and ushered you in. The second time followed an impromptu appendectomy. His clothes are damp with sweat and he smells like an ashtray. You can feel the surprise leak out of his tense muscles as he hugs you back.

"I'm fine." You let go.

He nods, takes a step back.

"Would you like a ride home, Castiel?" Leigh's stare finally releases you.

"Uh, yeah. Thanks."

You count the tiles by fours as you walk to the exit. Four tiles for four months. By the time the automatic doors are closing behind you, you've counted fifty-two. That's thirteen months, a little over a year. A year you hadn't really considered you wouldn't have. You used to think you were one of those people that didn't take life for granted, because you did recognize that it was a gift and you always tuned into the small things and smiled, and you did put silver-linings in your pockets, and you did swell in the good more than you dwelled on the bad.

You knew. You knew time was a precious, valuable thing and everybody only got so much of it. Despite that, deep down, you never expected this. You never truly considered that you wouldn't get enough to fill up your cup. You assumed you would without noticing and now you're not sure if you feel foolish. You try to give yourself the benefit of the doubt. You shouldn't spend your fleeing moments feeling foolish and until tonight you weren't given a reason why you wouldn't have time.

The car is quiet. Maybe Castiel notices. If he does he doesn't say anything. Then again, the quiet can easily be placed on something else. You're all tired. It's a little after six in the morning, which means you were in the hospital for about twelve hours. Demon barks when you pull into his driveway.

"Some night," Castiel remarks as he climbs out and shuts the door. "See ya later." He offers a little wave as he heads to his porch.

"Goodnight," you say even though it's morning.

"You're not going to tell him?" Leigh asks as soon as he disappears into the house.

"Not yet," you breathe. "I don't see the point in telling anyone yet. It'll upset everyone and ruin the atmosphere into this bleak, tense discomfiture like the one we're sharing right now, and there's nothing anyone can do about it anyway."

Leigh's fingers tighten around the steering wheel. "You can't keep this from Mother and Father..."

You sag under the weight of what you wish was kept from you and exhale softly. You know he's right. "Can we talk about it later?"

"Okay." Leigh swallows, makes this noise in his throat like he's in pain.

You're not particularly sure why you turn on the radio. Low post-punk swallows up the apprehensive silence on the drive back home. You try to think of something to say when you get out of the car. Maybe you come up with something. Maybe you don't. But your tongue is held until you reach the small lawn outside your apartment building, and what you do say can't be what you were thinking of.

"Morning dew always smells so refreshing."

Leigh pauses. He probably doesn't mean to look like he's riddled with needles when this tiny, broken smile curves his lips. He holds the door open for you. Usually you take the stairs, but today you take the elevator. Usually you sleep in your own bed too, but you find yourself curling up on the couch.

"Do you want me to get you a blanket?" Leigh asks, dithering near the kitchen table.

"I'd appreciate that." You're starting to realize you're exhausted. Your mind is reeling and your teeth are dry and your body is carrying this new reality you still haven't quite wrapped your head around.

(but it's so simple)

"Here." Leigh returns from the closet with his hideous and warm patchwork quilt that your mother made a few years back. He deftly unfolds it and drapes it over you.

(four months)

You snuggle back against the couch cushions comfortably and inhale the scent of cotton. "Thank you."

Leigh does something he hasn't done since you were kids. He leans down and lightly kisses the top of your head. Then he pats you on the shoulder and gets up, softly treading down the hall. He's a quiet person. He's shy most of the time, thoughtful when he isn't, speaks sotto voce, daydreams a little like you do about entirely different things.

So it's ironic that he's a loud crier. Crying is just about the only thing he does loudly. You try not to listen. You know he doesn't want you to hear, he's shut himself up in his room to spare you just as much as he's done it for privacy, but you hear anyway. His breath hitches; inhales sharp, exhales shallow and shaky. He whimpers like an animal caught in a sawtoothed trap, fraught and hopeless.

You're not sure how long you listen to him sob before you fall asleep.

Δ

Afternoon sunlight is streaming in through the shades when you wake up.

You need a moment to adjust to the brightness. It's pretty when you do. Sparkling dust drifts down, a pattern of sunbeams on the carpet. You sit up slowly and stretch out, draw some air into your lungs and notice Leigh. He's dozing in the armchair with dried tear tracks shining on his cheeks.

You rise quietly, trying not to disturb him as you sidle to the bathroom. You still smell like hospital, a shower is in order. Maybe the steam will clear your head. Figuratively, of course. Only figuratively...

(four)

You turn the faucet. The rush of water pattering against ceramic beckons you as you strip down and place a towel before the edge of the tub.

(months)

You step in and the spray peppers you with hot kisses, plasters your hair to your neck and livens you up in the most relaxing way. The steam soothes a throat you didn't realize closed around a knot. You don't intend to cry. You're somewhere between stunned and mortified when you realize it's not just water from the shower running down your face.

You don't resist. It is what it is, maybe you're embarrassed or disappointed in yourself, or you feel like you don't have time for this, and maybe it's not even exactly yourself that you're mourning, but the tears are in rich supply and you succumb. You wish you didn't know, you wish you didn't know, you wish you didn't know. You break down silently with your forehead pressed to the cool tile and the hot water trailing down your quivering back.

You don't step out until the water grows cold and you feel better. You didn't exactly feel bad to begin with, and you don't think there's a word for how you did feel even though there are many words for many things, but now you feel clean. The bathroom is pleasantly fogged up and you idly draw a bunny in the mirror. You dry your skin, wrap a towel around your waist and toss one over your hair before opening the door.

Before you get dressed, you go to check on your brother. He's woken up since your shower, he's in the kitchen with a skillet in his hand. You raise a brow.

"What are you doing?"

He glances to you and back to the pan, and back to you again. "I thought I'd make something..."

"You hate cooking," you remind him.

"I don't hate it exactly, I simply...Okay, I hate it. Do you want to go out? I have Rosa covering for me at the store, I told her you were sick." Leigh freezes just as the words leave his lips. It's not a lie.

"That sounds good." You've been too distracted to think about your appetite, but now that it's been brought to your attention you realize you're hungry.

"What are you in the mood for?" Leigh puts down the pan.

You ponder that for a moment. "Muffins."

Not the most nutritious thing, but you hardly need to worry about that anymore.

"Muffins, then." Leigh's lips twitch. "Put some clothes on."

You nod, ruffling your hair with the towel as you swivel back down the hall and duck into your room. You expect him to bring it up on the walk, but he doesn't. You talk about his store's business, how fascinating paper sculptures are, why he doesn't like curry, and what movies are out at the cinema. The mere fraction that is four months is this raincloud following you both and shadowing the punctuation of every sentence, but he doesn't bring it up so you don't bring it up either.

You bring up birch trees and basement bands, and this stray cat you're fairly sure lives in the shrubbery on the side of your school. You've seen Nathaniel feeding it. This fatalistic, negative part of you that doesn't sound like you at all can't help thinking that that cat is going to be around longer than you are, but you refuse to say that or dwell on it any more than the milliseconds it takes to process and complete itself.

Bells on the door tinkle happily as a woman exists the bakery. She courteously holds it open for you and Leigh to walk in and you acknowledge this with a nod, a smile. The bakery teems with the appealing aroma of fresh bread, powdered sugar, and rising dough. It's making you even hungrier. Your taste in muffins is a little unusual.

Everybody likes the classic blueberry or chocolate chip, but your preference lies with the neglected lemon-poppy. You get one, and a new creation on special (cinnamon, cranberry, and white chocolate sounds like too much to you, but you might as well try something new, you have nothing to lose), and a coffee. Leigh gets a turnover and a pumpkin muffin and you settle yourselves down against the window.

The sun is setting, spilling scarlet into the sky as it sinks beyond the buildings. It's odd having breakfast in the evening. You didn't quite realize it was evening until now. You've slept the day away. Understandable given last night's circumstances, but with your current circumstances you really don't want to make this a habit.

"Is the new flavor any good?" Leigh curiously eyes the muffin you've just taken an experimental bite of.

You savor, swallow, swipe the crumbs off your lip with your tongue. "Strangely delectable."

Δ

Your parents take it about as well as you can expect. They want to see you now and honestly, you really want to see them too. So you're not completely sure you aren't adopted, you suddenly miss all their oddities with this deep, cavernous longing.

But you also don't want to act like things are different. You want to keep going to school and treating tomorrows like you'd treat them if you didn't know they were running out. Perhaps you should have higher goals than that. Perhaps you should try to accomplish something, or go somewhere, or...

Well, you'll address that later. Your parents come first.

Leigh closes shop for a week and you skip class to visit them.

Initially you have to grit your teeth and handle the crying, the hugging, the questions, another hospital trip for a second opinion that ends the same as the first with more of your blood drawn than you're comfortable with and a grim apology, but after all that and the crash that follows, it's like any other visit.

Certainly, there's a cow in the room, but you all skirt around it and talk about the other aspects of your lives.

A couple of days ago your mother had to chase a coyote away from the hens with her broom. Your father needs to replace his tractor, but the new models confuse him and he's not sure which one to get. They both saw a strange looking bird in the yard yesterday, apparently the size of a football with purple feathers. You're not sure if you believe them. You certainly believe that they think they saw that — but it could've been something else, a trick of the light.

You're no bird enthusiast, but you think you'd know if there was one that unusual.

They ask Leigh all about Rosalya, ask him to bring her to visit sometime. Naturally they ask you if you have a secret lover you plan on unveiling to them. You smile sheepishly, say you don't, and wonder if you regret that.

You've always been a bit of a romantic truth be told, even if you can recognize idealized ardor and love treated as a commercialized product. You wonder what it's like to be truly in love with someone, to share an intimate, romantic bond and experience the kind of connection that blooms with serendipity and knits souls with ease to be kept by effort.

You think you regret that you haven't felt that, you think you're disappointed you don't have enough time to, but you've felt other kinds of love and you know that's enough. Other types of love are not inferior, they're every bit as important and sometimes more so. They just aren't as profitable or glamorized.

Your parents ask about your friends, how the weather's been, tell you about the new recipes they've been trying. Both of them are good cooks when they're cooking together, interestingly enough. Apart they always burn things or forget to add critical ingredients, but when they tackle meals together, they really pull them off. Dinner tonight was leftovers and cereal, given the length of today and the toll it's taken, but you look forward to what'll be on the table tomorrow.

You're looking forward to this week in its entirety, as a matter of fact.

Although you prefer the city and your urban lifestyle, there's something in the country that still feels like home. It's not nostalgia playing tricks on you, there's an element to the open landscape that quells something inside you. You find solace in the peace and quiet and the taste of foliage in the air. Spending a week in it is going to do you good, you think. The atmosphere is good for writing.

Also, you've missed them.

უ

You have your good days and you have your bad days.

It's been almost a month and most of your days have been good ones. You are an optimist. You've always been an optimist. That part of you is as important now as it's ever been, and you enjoy the world's beauty to its fullest. You try not to waste time on things you don't favor and although you've never been a poor student, you don't concern yourself with the subjects you aren't best at anymore.

Despite your resolve and your innate positivity, sometimes it just hits you that it's three months now, three months and you just...You...You can't lap up everything you want to in three months. It's almost like the world is too beautiful.

There are places you want to go, wonders you want to see, things you want to do, goals you have, people you haven't met yet, foods you haven't tasted, landscapes you don't even know about, hobbies you haven't tried, festivals that haven't happened, epiphanies you haven't had.

There is so much.

So much you can't squeeze in, so much you're not going to be here for and you know every second you spend thinking about this terrible, unfortunate thing you cannot change you're just making it worse because it's a second you could've spent delighting in the opportunities you do have to finish writing your song, see your friends, or remember where you put your library card.

You feel guilty for your own grief and you feel aggravated by your guilt and ungrateful for your aggravation because you do not have time to feel any of these pessimistic things and you're trying so hard not to and you thought you were strong enough to maintain that bright outlook without any cracks, and you just...You can't. Sometimes you just can't.

You have to sit down and maybe you bite the inside of your cheeks so you don't cry, but you feel shaky and you have to take a break even though you don't have time for it. You never talk about this, but Leigh notices. Sometimes he gives you your own space and sometimes he stays with you. He cries with you once, rubs your back like you're a kid who took a dive off your bike, apologizes to you for sobbing while you apologize for making him sob, both feeling undignified and incredibly relieved.

Some of your bad days are like that.

Some of your bad days are bad days regardless of how you feel emotionally because physically you're burning out. These ones are becoming more frequent. You'll get these piercing migraines so sharp and powerful you have to double over, that last anywhere from ten minutes to an hour. You'll get dizzy with or without migraines on some days, the room will spin into slurry colors and black will creep out from the corners. Other times you're enervated.

It doesn't matter how long you sleep, you'll wake up with every drop of verve drained from your body. You'll feel like the hollowed out cicada husks that get crunched into the sidewalk under everyone's shoes. Sometimes you feel like you have a fever, you can't focus and it's too hot under the covers and too cold without them.

Unless you insist he leave, Leigh stays with you on those days.

A few times so far, the morning starts out fine and you don't go downhill until later in the day. When that happens, depending on just how horrible you feel, you either hold your tongue and deal with it or Castiel takes you home and skips the rest of the day with you. This has only happened a couple of times and you still haven't told him, but you think he's starting to notice something is wrong.

You think Rosalya is starting to notice too. She gives you this look once, her face pinched uncertainly with an almost reproachful glint in her amber eyes, as though she knows you're keeping something important from her. You know Leigh hasn't told her even though you're relatively convinced he wants to. She may not have it pegged that you're dying, but she is aware that Leigh isn't himself.

You're not keen on doing this, keeping up a charade. You're hiding something serious from people you care about. You're lying and you despise liars and being one makes your skin crawl...

On the other hand, you fail to see any benefit coming out of being honest about this. You are beyond help. You're going to worry everyone, every interaction is going to become bittersweet and they're all going to hold their breath and dread the inevitable. They are going to cry useless tears and worry enormously about this ticking clock that they can't take the batteries out of and restart, and you just...You want them to be happy.

You want to spend three more months with them happily.

There are never clear answers to decisions like this.

All you can do is stick to what what you've chosen and hope it's the right thing.

ɣ

"Lysander?"

You get one more drink from the fountain, then straighten up and wheel around to see Nathaniel. You incline your head, blinking at him.

"I thought you didn't want to talk to me anymore." He's an odd one, to say the least. You were friends with him for a hot second, but then he just grew distant and withdrew. Why? You don't have the faintest idea. It's not as if you bear any ill will for him, but this is indeed the first time he's said something to you since he said he didn't want to say anything to you.

He shuffles uncomfortably, goes to adjust the tie he doesn't wear anymore, corrects himself automatically and tugs at his collar instead. "Well...You've been missing a lot of class..."

Oh.

"Do I have unexcused absences?" You could swear you called in every day you stayed home, but then, your memory has never been the best. Perhaps it's deteriorating altogether like the rest of you, you don't really know.

"No, um, no..." His eyes lower.

"Is there something wrong?" You lift a brow. Did you use up your allotted sick days? Are you going to need a doctor's note next time?

"That's what I'm trying to ask you." Nathaniel hesitates to meet your gaze. "You haven't been here and you...Well, no offense, but you look thinner. Are you okay?"

For a moment you feel like time has come to a halt. He's caught you off guard, disarmed you with an inquiry you somehow don't know how to respond to. You should know.

"No," you murmur finally. "Not particularly."

Nathaniel frowns, shoulders tensing up. "What's wrong? Maybe I can do something."

You chuckle softly. It's not funny, he comes to talk to you out of the blue and he just wants to help and you're not even sure why, and it's just about the furthest thing from funny. Even so, there's something uncanny about it and you suppose you appreciate the concern.

"No. Thank you, Nathaniel." You dip your head and pat him on the shoulder as you head back to Biology.

You have create a slideshow about apoptosis. Maybe you should turn around and ask if he has any notes you can borrow. Ah, no, you're already halfway down the hall and he doesn't have that class anyway.

The day trickles by, you go about your schoolwork and scribble in your notebook. You either forgot your lunch or Rosalya borrowed it while you were unaware. No matter, Kentin shares his cookies and Castiel shares his sandwich.

After there's practice in the basement and you think that's going well until your best friend misses three notes and gives you this flint look just as you're going to ask why.

"Alright," Castiel says. "Are you gonna tell me what's up?"

"'What's up?'" You repeat questioningly.

"Yeah. Don't think I didn't notice you've been kinda off. I just didn't say anything 'cause I figured you'd bring it up when you felt like it. But when Nat goes out of his way to talk to me without insulting me and ask me about you, I think I should take it as a cue to say something." He lets his hands rest on his guitar, peering at you solemnly.

It's one thing for you to keep your lips sealed about two-and-a-half months when no one is asking, but when you're being directly confronted...Can you really just lie?

"I'd rather not discuss it." You can't help wincing at how cryptic you sound.

"You're starting to worry me." His forehead creases, lips cementing in a taut line.

"That's the last thing I want to do," you breathe honestly. "And you shouldn't worry." Also true, there's no point in worrying about what you can't do anything about.

Castiel sighs heavily and drums his fingers against the polished surface of his instrument. You can tell he's not satisfied but he can tell you don't want to budge, so he nods. This is the death of that conversation. You start another one.

"Do you want to play at this hole in the wall on Saturday? Tori says she can drum if we help her set up on Friday."

"...I really wish you'd tell me what's up." And so it revives itself.

Two.

(and a half)

Months.

"When it becomes relevant, I will."

"If it's bothering you now, it's relevant now." He stares at you firmly, eyes vivid with stubborn distress.

"It's not," you assure him and you feel like there's acid in your throat.

ɣ

It becomes relevant a bit sooner than you expected.

Saturday starts out fine. You get up early, you eat a banana, you take a long shower and find a barely-awake Rosalya making coffee in your kitchen when you venture back in for something slightly more substantial. She is not a morning person. You know this, she spends the night here often and though you're perfectly comfortable with that sometimes you have to turn up your music so you don't hear her and your brother, ah, enjoying themselves.

"G'Morning, Lys-baby," she yawns.

"Good morning."

She sips her coffee and then leans back against the counter, blowing a wisp of snowy hair out of her face. "I had a dream I was an astronaut."

"Oh?"

"Mhm. Not sure why," she mumbles. "Spacesuits are ugly. And they get bone problems, don't they?"

"I'm not exactly sure, but I've heard something like that, yes."

She nods, jaw stretching in another yawn. "You want some coffee?"

"I can get it myself." You smile.

She waves her hand. "I'm closer to the pot."

She proceeds to get you a cup and you try some of that peppermint creamer she's brought that you haven't had before. You like it more than you thought you would. The morning is tranquil.

When it fades into afternoon, you take a walk around just to stretch your legs. It's cool outside, but not unpleasantly so. What is unpleasant is when you tread on a gob of someone's freshly chewed gum. Honestly. The crudeness of some people, just leaving it on the sidewalk like that. There are plenty of trashcans around. It's all stuck between the grooves in your sole and you're going to have to scrub it out.

"Lysander," a chipper voice exclaims and as you turn toward it, you are affectionately seized around the waist by a tiny lolita.

"Hello, Nina." You pat her head.

"Guess what?" She looks up to you, her silver eyes glittering gleefully. She's still hugging you and though it's a bit awkward, you allow it.

"What?"

"I got a ferret," she chirrups. "I named him after you."

You're as amused as you are endeared. "I'm honored."

She beams and finally lets go of you, bouncing a few steps back and doing a little pirouette. "So what are you up to?"

"Simply savoring the day."

"Nina! Come on, let's go!" A trio of other girls her age beckon to her from where they stand further down the sidewalk, outside of the book store.

"Coming!" she calls back to them. "Sorry, I have to go. I'll see you later, Lysander!" She bounds away and you offer a small wave after her.

You hear them giggling and asking if you're her boyfriend. You pointedly wheel around and start back home. You need to get the gum off your shoe. When you do accomplish that, you're hit with a sudden burst of inspiration. You immediately begin scrawling in your notebook, following the motivational wave while you have it and using wits to fill in the rest of the blanks it leaves you with.

Evening rolls around. The sky is dusky, arterial blood from the wound that is the sun seeping into the gauzy clouds. You'd take a picture if you could recall where you put your camera. Everything is fine until you're about halfway to the bus stop, then you become aware of a headache budding between your temples. It's minor compared to what you've had to deal with lately, dull and irritating more than painful, but present nonetheless.

You elect to ignore it for now. After all, you have had to deal with true, fierce, splitting pain. This is nothing you can't handle.

Castiel is already at the bus stop when you get there, baggy Gojira t-shirt wrinkled and phone in his hands.

"Hey," he says. "I was just gonna call you to make sure we're still doing this." He slides his phone back into his pocket.

"Am I late?" You raise a brow.

"Not really, but I figured you were gonna be here before me. You're usually earlier than I am." He shrugs.

"Oh..." Your vision is blurring. You try to blink it back and suddenly you feel like you've been kicked onto a carousel. Whatever your friend is saying is muffled, inaudible as your ears tinnily ring and that's when the darkness takes over.

Ω

You hear a sniffle. A quiet gasp, another soft sniffle.

And then, maybe something's dripping somewhere...?

More quiet sniffling.

"Don't let him see you like that." Leigh, that's definitely Leigh.

Then who...?

"I know." A louder sniffle, a heavy intake of breath. "Shit, I know." It's Castiel.

"Should I go get some coffee?" That isn't a voice. That's the shrill echo of breaking glass somehow sounding like a question.

Attributing it to Rosalya is the last thing you hazily accomplish before everything slips away again.

Ω

When you wake up, it's to sterility. A bleached ceiling that isn't yours, the feel of a thin mattress beneath you that isn't yours, stark walls. One of your veins is tethered to a saline pouch and two of the ugly scrambled egg-yellow chairs against the wall are vacant, but one is occupied by a redhead with fingers that jitter with the urge for a cigarette, hunched so far forward he looks like a wilted flower.

You wet your lips with your tongue and greet him. "Hi."

He jolts right out of the chair like a wasp stung him on the ass. "Hey. Um, don't worry. It's not just me here. Rosa's making Leigh go eat, and they called your parents so they're coming too."

You nod, soaking in this information. Castiel is still wearing the same clothes, so you're relatively certain you haven't been out that long. He looks shifty, twitchy, like he isn't sure what to do with himself.

You give him an apologetic smile. "You know."

He stumbles back like he might sit again but he doesn't.

"You're not angry with me, are you? For not telling you?"

"No, no, of course not." He rakes his hand through his hair, swallowing so hard you can hear him and clenching a fist around the scarlet threads. He's shaking. It's almost imperceptible. Almost.

"I'm sorry."

"Why are you sorry? Don't say that, you're the one..."

"Dying? It's okay, you can say it." You've come to terms with this and now that he knows, he knows.

"It's not okay," croaks Castiel. Now he does slump back in the chair, sinking forward again, hair falling into his face. A sharp, breathy sound escapes him and his shoulders tremble harder as he hunches even farther forward. It takes the smallest, softest splash for you to realize something.

"It is okay if you cry. I did." You're slightly embarrassed admitting that, but it's the truth and as much as it hurts you to see him devastated, you don't want him to feel like he can't be.

"I'm not crying," he protests in a crumbling voice punctuated by a sniffle.

You sit up, bracing yourself to stand up. You do, gingerly tugging you IV along as you breach the gap and sit down next to Castiel. You gently cup the back of his neck and draw him in, let him push his face into your collarbone to smother the weepy sounds. You haven't actually seen him cry before. You've seen him upset, he wears his stubbornness like armor and lashes out, often inadvertently at himself.

He's like an inverted Leigh. Almost everything he does is loud, bold, intimidating to some people, but he's a very quiet crier. You're not sure how long it takes until he subdues and then you're the one to break the silence when you notice his knuckles are bandaged.

"What happened to your hand?"

Castiel straightens up, your own hand softly sliding down from his nape. "Got into it with Nat. You probably didn't notice earlier because you were busy passing out."

You don't think it's true. You think he probably punched a wall when informed why you passed out. You don't ask though, you nod and get up and return to the too thin, starchy mattress that isn't yours.

"Sorry I scared you," you say instead.

"Don't worry about it." Castiel shrugs. "It was worse the first time. This time you looked weird for a second so I kinda saw it coming. Grabbed you before you hit the ground."

"Thank you. Ah...How long ago was that?"

"Not sure." Castiel fishes his phone out of his pocket and checks. "About four hours ago."

"Oh. Would you happen to know what I'm on?" You spare a glance back to your IV.

"Eh...No. I mean, she explained it but I wasn't really paying attention to that part...Sorry."

"It's alright."

"You wanna play Robot Unicorn Attack?" He holds up his phone.

"Sure. But mute it please, that song is horrid."

"I heard Armin singing it in the locker room." Snickering, he drags his chair closer and hands you his phone.

"So have I. I don't have the heart to tell him he's tone deaf."

You play until you explode and then you pass it back to Castiel, he does the same and passes it back to you. This goes on for awhile and you manage to beat your previous high score before Leigh and Rosalya come back. It's only once they arrive you notice they've been gone abnormally long and breathlessly, Rosa explains why.

"We got lost," she announces, flopping back into a chair. "This place is huge! And they're so busy tonight! We saw a guy with nails in his head, a guy with a fork sticking out of his eye, this woman who superglued her butt cheeks together." She shudders.

"One of the elevators we got on took us to the basement," adds Leigh.

"Isn't the basement where they keep the bodies?" Castiel scoffs.

"That'd be the morgue," you chime in.

"Yeah, but isn't the morgue in the basement?"

"We didn't get out," Leigh says. "We didn't see what was down there."

"Anyway," breathes Rosa, her gaze flitting to you and melting warmly. "How are you feeling, Lys-baby?"

"Fine." It's true for the time being. "I beat my high score." You waggle Castiel's phone.

Her lips spread in a pretty grin. "Cool."

"Actually, can we leave?" You look to your brother. You can't see any reason to stay. Hospital staff apparently have objects to remove from heads and faces and butt cheeks to unglue, things they can fix. You can't be fixed.

"I think so." Leigh gives a small nod. "Let me go find someone and ask."

You hope he doesn't get lost again.

დ

They give you a prescription for something that's supposed to help your migraines. The side-effects are a bit daunting when reading the label, but the migraines are torment. You risk it and you end up not experiencing any side-effects anyway.

Your parents come stay with you. A neighbor watches the farm while they inhabit your apartment. Said apartment is too small for four people (practically five because Rosa never wants to leave now) but you're glad to have them here. They stay in Leigh's room and Leigh stays in the living room, alternating between the couch and the inflatable mattress on the floor.

Usually.

Occasionally he lays with you. It's a bit awkward since you're not kids anymore, but he still has this big brother instinct to protect you from all the bad things. Only the worst thing is already happening and he can't do anything about it. You appreciate him anyway.

You appreciate all of this, everyone, although you can admit it gets a bit suffocating. Sometimes you need your own space. Maybe that's why you keep going to school, staying after with your pen to muse in the gardening club.

Σ

Something strange happens when you're singing.

Though you do sing in the presence of others and try your best whenever you do in the hopes that they will enjoy your singing, in the end you sing for yourself. It's always a personal experience for you and you feel alone with the lyrics, the outside world sliding away and pure melody enveloping you in its absence.

But tonight, you look up and you become aware of the crowd watching you. You don't just acknowledge their presence, you actually see them and soak them in, and that is your first sign something is wrong.

The stage lights shimmer vividly and then dim like the power might be going out. Then you realize it's not the lights that are dimming it's you, and you've stopped singing.

The microphone falls from your grasp as you topple over.

...

"Lys-baby?"

Something cool brushes your forehead, your cheek. You open your eyes. Rosalya's kneeled to the left of you, teeth in her lip. Leigh is next to her, a wet cloth in his hand. Castiel's to your right, heaving a sigh as he tosses a glance and an update back to whoever. "He's coming around!"

"I fainted again," you realize flatly.

Rosalya nods and gives your hand an apologetic squeeze.

Well this is certainly embarrassing, among other things. "How long was I unconscious?"

"Like fifteen minutes," Rosalya says. "I think someone called an ambulance."

Your inwardly recoil. "Please tell me it's not here yet..."

"It's not," She assures you. "If you're okay to get up, we can go. Me and Castiel can come back for the equipment later, no one's gonna take it while this place is still open."

"I'm okay." You do not want to go back to the hospital at all.

"Be careful." Leigh realizes you're gotten up too fast before you realize you've gotten up too fast and catches you gently when you stumble.

He helps you off the stage, Rosa and Castiel both buffering against the people who are undoubtably staring at you. You don't care much about what people think and you've never been one to be overwhelmed by crowds, but you do have to admit you're a bit embarrassed. You feel like you should apologize, perhaps, but the task of getting to the car takes your focus.

Castiel sits in the back with you, bundles his jacket in his lap so you can have a pillow. You have long legs, so stretching out in the back can be a little cramped, but you appreciate the gesture and since you're still lightheaded it's genuinely more comfortable than sitting up.

You take a closer look at him like this. His expression is subdued, tight. He probably feels bad. He asked you multiple times if you were okay for a gig and tried really hard to make sure he wasn't pushing you into anything. But you weren't and he probably feels like he did. He didn't, of course, you wanted to sing. You really thought you could, too.

"I'm sorry."

"Huh? For what?"

"Being wrong and ruining your night." You exhale a soft sigh.

"Don't you dare apologize!" Rosalya whips her head and glowers at you from the passenger's seat, eyes ablaze. "You have nothing to be sorry for!"

"She's right," Castiel agrees. "You didn't do anything wrong." He's colorless, holding himself stiff and grim like he's on his way to a funeral. You idly wonder what he's going to wear to yours. Or if he'll even go. You hope he does but sometimes he hides when he's sad.

Rosalya's gaze is still cooking you to a crisp, so you spare a weak smile. "Fine. I retract my apology."

She nods, appeased, and then turns back around.

What's she going to wear? A dress probably, she likes dresses but you could see her in a suit. Will she put her hair up? Where's your funeral going to be anyway? You don't have any particular insight or preference for funeral homes, but you don't want to be buried. You want to be cremated, spread around the wilderness near your childhood home. You're sentimental that way.

But you haven't told anybody this. You need to do that soon if you want your wishes to be heeded. Should you talk to your parents? Leigh? Just leave a letter?

Such dreary, depressing thoughts. Though you suppose you are a bit depressed. You can't even sing anymore...

No, stop, don't tell yourself that. Tonight didn't work out but you might get another chance or two. Even if you don't, it's okay.

It's okay. You can always sing in private, harmonize to your headphones.

This is okay.

Σ

"How are you feeling?"

"Fine."

"Really?" Rosalya scrutinizes. "Are you just saying that because you don't want me to worry? You can be honest if you feel like shit on a stick."

Shit on a stick. You smile and shake your head.

"I'm not sparing your feelings, Rosa, I'm fine. Rather content, actually." Today is one of your good days and you didn't need a pill to get here.

"Good, then I'm borrowing you." She takes you by the hand and drags you out of your room, down the hall.

"Are you two going somewhere?" Your mother asks, blinking curiously. She and your father are in the kitchen, going through Leigh's stash of instant noodles and looking appalled once more.

"Apparently," you answer.

"We won't be gone long," promises Rosalya, giving them a dazzling diamond smile. They bid you goodbye and she tugs you out of your home and into the elevator.

"Where exactly are we going?"

"Apple orchard," she tells you. "Iris and Lynn roped me into helping them pick some."

"So you're bringing me for manual labor," you accuse lightly.

"Pretty much." She gives you a goblin grin.

"You have a deplorable bedside manner."

"You like me anyway."

And you do. Once upon a time in a way you shouldn't have, but that's practically eons ago. It's a good day to go to the apple orchard. The cloudless sky is azure and the sun shines brightly, its pale beams warming the atmosphere just enough against the whispers of autumn on the wind. Its kisses dapple the leaves with reds and yellows. The air is sweet and crisp with the natural perfume of apples and you inhale deeply, filling your lungs.

"Hi guys," Iris and Lynn chirp in unison, but you only see the former, waving cheerfully to you and dressed in a periwinkle jacket.

"I'm in the tree," Lynn pipes up before you or Rosa can ask, perhaps seeing your confused expressions. Sure enough, you look up and see her round face and bright pine eyes glittering at you between the leaves and plump, ripe apples. She winks at you and then plucks one off, calling down, "Incoming, Iris!"

Iris moves her basket to catch the apple as Lynn drops it.

You claim the tree next to theirs and Rosa brings over the other empty basket, which you set to filling right away. You eat while you work, munching on a ruby cortland.

"Who do you think decided to call it an apple?" Iris asks after a little while of picking and chatting about things like what's on television tonight and what's going on at school.

"What you do mean?" Lynn tilts her head, still perched up in the tree.

"Well someone had to give it a title at some point," Iris says.

"Maybe 'apple' was someone's name," Rosa suggests. "A lot of things are named after people."

"Isn't there an actress who named her daughter Apple?" Lynn asks.

"I think it was a singer," you say, vaguely remembering hearing this somewhere, someplace.

"Speaking of singers, I saw Debrah the other day." Iris looks uncomfortable once she's said it.

"Gross," Rosa mutters what you're all thinking, more or less. "Where?"

"She was at the mall. She didn't see me, she was kissing someone — a girl with blue hair." Iris moves the basket to catch another pair of falling apples Lynn drops down.

"Oh my god." Rosalya perks, her eyes flashing. "Did you take a picture?"

"No." Iris's features screw up. "Why would I do that?"

Rosa just shakes her head like Iris is a lost cause and Lynn pipes up saying that she took some pictures the other day, not of Debrah, but some landscape shots. Which turns the entire discussion into one about photography. From there you get to talking about scrap-booking, then scrapping for metal, then Iris talks about how she made a clubhouse in a junkyard in elementary, and you all talk about silly things you did when you were that young, and the conversation keeps jumping like that until all four baskets are full.

Iris's mother picks you up. Apparently she's taking the apples you've gathered to the soup kitchen and that tidbit of information makes you feel even more accomplished. However, the four of you have gathered more than enough and you get to bring home a decent bagful. Your parents seize the opportunity and throw away the rest of the instant noodles in the cabinet, making a pie.

Σ

What starts out as one of your good days starts becoming a bad one shortly before lunch hour. It's not one of your migraines and that's good, but you're lightheaded. You stumble in the hall and barely catch yourself.

"You alright?" Castiel puts his hand on your back.

"Dizzy," you admit. You should probably sit down. For now you just lean on him.

"Do you want me to take you home?" He frowns, concerned.

"No, that's okay." You close your eyes. You love your family, but you're feeling suffocated again. Besides, they'll worry if you come back in the middle of the day and you don't want them to worry, they have enough disconcert stemming from you wearing them down.

"I'm not sure you should go to class like this..." Castiel puts an arm around your shoulders to anchor you.

You're not sure either. The bell signifying said class has started while you're still here just trying to steady is probably indicating that you shouldn't.

"Maybe not." But you don't want to go home, you just want the world to stop twirling around and take off its tutu.

"You wanna skip and come over to my place?"

You consider. You were going to go to his house after school anyway...Though you don't want him to skip for you this is, well, more likely than not the last opportunity you have to skip together. And you've both gotten in half of your classes, at least.

"Alright." You open your eyes, blink a few times. You still feel faint.

You do not foresee what happens next. Castiel scoops you up.

An embarrassing squawk escapes your lips and you throw your arms around his neck instinctively. "What the hell!?"

"You're dizzy, right?"

"Yes, but I'm not an invalid. You can put me down."

"I've seen you pass out twice now." He grips you tighter, shuffling toward the doors. "I don't want there to be a third time because you're overdoing it."

"I'm not going to pass out, Castiel, really. You must know how strange this looks..." Mostly everyone is in class, but there are a few students who meander around, already staring at you.

"Since when do you care what other people think?"

"I don't, but you tend to." You're grateful you weren't upstairs when he decided to do this. "Anyhow, aren't I heavy?"

"Nah." He shakes his head and you think he's going to put you down so he can open the door, but he just swivels around and opens it with his back.

"So when are you going to put me down?"

"Bus stop."

"You...No, you're not going to carry me up the street. Put me down."

"Are you still dizzy?"

"A bit, but—"

"Bus stop it is. It's fine, then you can sit."

"I can't believe you're doing this," you mumble and then you just shake your head and grin at the absurdity.

He does put you down at the bus stop, and even though you normally walk to his house, today you take it. By the time you reach the stop to get off at, you're not feeling lightheaded anymore. You don't feel well though, you feel...Listless. Your stomach is uneasy. You're not nauseous or cramping up, or anything like that, you just don't...You feel weak. Your limbs are too heavy and you want to lie down.

You lean on Castiel until you get inside. Demon greets you both, snuffling at you and licking your hand. You pat his head and he follows you and claims the cushion next to you when you plop down on Castiel's couch. He rolls over onto his back and whines at you until you scratch his belly.

"You look sort of pale," Castiel says, brows knitting.

"I'm not going to pass out," you promise. You find Demon's spot. Whenever you rub it, he kicks his leg back and fourth.

Castiel nods, hesitates like he has something to say. And then he does say, "I'll be right back," as he heads into his bedroom. He returns with this black box not much smaller than a shoebox and seats himself on the floor.

"What's that?"

"Mary Jane." He opens it and takes a plastic baggie out, holding it up so you can see the green contents. "I'm not sure if it'll make you feel better or not, but it's here. You wanna smoke?"

You don't usually. Socially you have a couple of times, but it's not something that particularly appeals to you. You're concerned that it might effect your singing. Well, you were concerned, rather. Now you feel like a dirty dishtowel someone is wringing the water out of. Maybe a little high would help alleviate this.

"Why not?"

Smirking, he starts grinding it up. You watch. You've never prepared any of that by yourself, you took a puff from a communal bowl a total number of twice and that was it. He takes this little rectangle of paper and starts rolling it. Demon hops down from the couch and trots over to a bone near the television set and you take the opportunity to stretch out on your side, using your arm as a pillow.

Castiel glances up to you, pausing in his task.

"You know, if you're really not feeling good and you change your mind and you want me to take you home, that's totally fine."

"I know. I'm okay."

He resumes rolling the joint and when it's finished, he lights it and takes a hit before passing it to you. You sit as you accept it, tasting the mild dampness of his mouth on the roach as you draw in a lungful. You're not used to this and you cough a little. You take a second hit and you're more prepared for the slow burn in the back of your throat, the heat in your nostrils.

Castiel plugs his mp3 player into the speaker so you have background music to chill out to. You pass it back and fourth for awhile, getting more used to it. Your high settles around you by the third hit, this fluff in your head and subdued thrum in your body. You do indeed feel better by your fifth hit and you're not sure if it's because the weed is pacifying your ails or because you're too stoned to be aware of them.

"I think we're wasting some of this," Castiel murmurs. There's little more than the roach left.

"Can't you roll more?" You nod to the box.

"Yeah, but we should still, y'know, conserve what we have...You wanna shotgun it?"

"You say that like you expect me to know what that is." You chuckle and gaze up at his ceiling, listening to the soft rock in the background and finding yourself humming to it.

He climbs up onto the couch next to you and motions for you to face him. You do so, sitting straighter.

"I'll show you." He grins, embers in his eyes. "Just be ready to breathe in."

"Alright."

He takes a drag and scoots a little closer to you, leaning in. Your lips nearly skim and you rather expect them to, but they don't. He exhales and you inhale the smoke, heat curling down your throat and keeping your stomach warm.

"They say you learn something new every day." You recline into the cushions, content. "I don't believe in all those old sayings, but that one has yet to fail me."

"Yeah?"

"Mhm."

"Not sure if I learned anything today," Castiel murmurs, but he sounds more thoughtful than contrary.

"I'm sure you did." You gently tweeze the joint from his fingers and treat yourself to another hit.

Afternoon fades into evening and all you do is listen to music, smoke, and talk about everything from gumball machines to Tasmanian devils. It's serene, blissful. The high you have going makes it feel like time is going by slowly and since you have so little of it remaining, this is about the best sensation you could ask for. Then you both get hungry. Hunger comes on sudden and strong, leaving you feeling like a bottomless pit.

You and Castiel scavenge his kitchen and finish off the pretzels and the nachos, but it's still not enough.

"We should order pizza," he declares.

"With everything on it," you agree and slip your phone out of your pocket.

"Except the anchovies...But are anchovies even real? Aren't they just some kind of sick myth?" He squints uncertainly.

You pause to ponder this. You're not thinking straight, your brain has sprouted golden wings and left its troubles behind, soaring among clouds that are made of true fluff and not water vapor.

"Doesn't matter I guess," Castiel continues. "'Cause we're not getting 'em. We should get breadsticks though, and hot wings, and whatever that good pasta is called."

You don't think he's ever had a better idea. You call and you order everything. You'll split the bill with him, you have your wallet on you. In the span of twenty minutes it takes for the pizza delivery guy to arrive, Castiel rolls another joint that neither of you really need just to have it there and you swap out his mp3 player for your phone, as it's completed its playlist.

When the delivery does arrive you both go to the door to carry the massive feast of what you've ordered in. There are actually two delivery guys there, one carrying the pizza and the breadsticks while the other carries the pasta, chicken wings, and cinnamon buns...Apparently you also ordered cinnamon buns. You don't remember doing that, but it's marvelous that you did.

"Thanks," Castiel says as he takes the first guy's boxes and you take the second. And then he notices something that you do a second later.

"Hey...You two look familiar." He squints and them and you do the same, intent on figuring out who...

"The clubs!" You snap your fingers. You don't remember their names, but they go to your school even though they don't go to your school. "You're in the gardening club, and you're in the basketball club at Sweet Amoris, correct?"

"Yeah," says the aforementioned basketball player as the gardener nods.

There's nothing remotely humorous about this, but Castiel starts cracking up. He's too stoned and you're too stoned and however unfunny this is, it feels twice as hilarious. You laugh so hard, you have to stop and put the food on the couch whilst Castiel has laughed himself into tears. The delivery guys exchange looks and gawk at you. They have to stand there and wait for you to recover for about ten minutes before you pay them.

π

You scramble to the restroom, but you aren't fast enough to reach a toilet and you lose your lunch all over the floor. Your legs wobble and you feel them hitting the tile and some of the mess seep into the knees of your pants before you even have time to be disgusted.

Your vision blurs and you're not entirely sure it's just because your eyes are watering. Your throat burns and your stomach is as volatile as a swarm of angry gnats. You have to clean this up.

You really, really have to clean this up but you don't know how you're supposed to do that when you feel like you can't even get up.

You try to stand, but the first time your legs don't want to listen to you and the second time you slip back down, a shudder rippling through your body. You gag and thankfully nothing comes up this time, but it's a thin silver lining when you're already in a puddle of your own puke.

"Whoa, gross!"

You turn to see Armin gaping in the entry and embarrassment floods through you. You want to apologize because you knows it's revolting, but your voice is tired and the words won't come out.

"Jeez, you're as white as a sheet. You okay?"

"I'm sick," you breathe, not meaning to close your eyes.

"Yeah, I guess so," he replies and he almost sounds impressed. "That's worse than Alexy after he ate a whole funnel cake and got on the Gravitron, and believe me, that was a lot. Do you want me to take you to the nurse?"

"No, that's alright. I have to clean up." You open your eyes and though you genuinely intend to get up and start swabbing the floor, it doesn't happen.

"Riiight." With that, Armin leaves and you're grateful because you'd rather be left alone with your own filth and one of your migraines is coming on. You feel it sharpening its axe behind your eyeballs and you know it's only a matter of time before it drives it in.

The lights suddenly seem way too bright and not only is the sour reek of your vomit unpleasant, but it's seems like it's making it harder to breathe. You cover your eyes with the back of your arm and there goes the axe, splitting through your brain. You grit your teeth against a groan and inhale through your nose.

The sound of drops leaking from the sinks, so minute and nondescript when your head isn't pounding now echo in your eardrums. You want to get up and tighten the faucet, you still want to clean up your mess, but your body just won't listen to you. Approaching footsteps on the tile make you flinch.

"Lysander?"

Normally you're glad to hear his voice but now it hurts your head. You lower your arm and meet Castiel's worried gaze, casting a glance back to see Armin hovering beyond the doorway. He fetched your friend to come get you off the floor. That's...Pathetic. Really pathetic. You feel really pathetic and tired and cross, and you know it's not your fault but that doesn't make it any better.

"Let's get you out of here, okay?"

"Don't carry me this time," you mumble. He's always gentle with you now but you're still nauseous and if he tries that you're going to get sick again.

Castiel nods and hauls you up by the shoulders. You help as much as you can.

"I hope you feel better," Armin says as Castiel drags you into the hall, and you know he means well, but his voice scrapes obnoxiously against the havoc in your head.

You need silence, but the hallway is loud and classrooms are loud, and when Rosa sees what's happening and rushes over, she is loud. Everything is loud and painful, and you're trying very hard just to stay on your feet as your brain threatens to launch itself from the confines of your skull. You forgot to bring your medicine today and you hate yourself for that, you really do, because this is hell.

The nurse's office is a little quieter at least, but the woman herself is gruff and stentorian. You need to go home and she barks this at you, and you know, but even though your parents are staying with you, Leigh is the contact they have on file and you don't want to bother him while he's working. It's hard to talk through your migraine and harder still when Castiel and Rosalya are now arguing about which one of them is going to cut class and take you home, and they're so loud—

"Stop," you beg. "Stop talking. Both of you are taking me home, Castiel drives." Because she's too fast when she takes the wheel and you don't want to lose whatever's left in your stomach all over the dashboard.

They both stop at once. Rosa pats your hand and you know that's her way of apologizing.

ღ

It's not just one of your bad days, it's your worst day.

You've never been marginally close to this miserable before.

There are detonations going off constantly in your head and your medication isn't allaying anything at all. You pull the blankets up over your head because all it takes is a mere glance at light to sear you. Everything hurts. You feel like you've been impacted and even your fingernails are throbbing.

Movement is exceedingly painful and even if it weren't, you do not have the strength. Every breath you draw in scratches your lungs and your parents try to get you to eat something, or drink, and you can't because you know it'll come back up. You feel motion sick even though you haven't moved an inch and you're laying down but you're plagued by the abrupt, heavy sensation of falling.

Your brother asks if you want to go to the hospital and frankly, that is on the top of the list of things you absolutely do not want at all. Because you think this might be it, you think this isn't just your worst day, you think it's your last day. Right now you feel so wretched you hope it is. You want it to stop, but you don't want it to stop in the hospital.

Even if they can pump you full of sedatives and make the trip soothing, you want to stay right where you are. You would rather expire in your own bed, surrounded by your walls and the mess you never finished cleaning than on that too thin mattress, caged by solid white.

You're ice cold.

You're not sure if it's Death crawling up your back and sinking into your flesh, puncturing your cranium with her razor fingernails, or if it's because you're sweating buckets.

Your parents pile the blankets on you because you ask them to when you can force your mouth to function the way you want it to, but no number of them is going to warm you.

You appreciate the gesture through the fog of pain nonetheless.

θ

Yesterday wasn't the end and today is incredibly better. You feel a little groggy, but you aren't suffering. In fact, it feels like one of the best days you've had as of late. Perhaps that's just because yesterday you truly felt like you were circling the drain, but you're going to take what you can get.

You squiggle out of your nest of blankets and tiptoe around Leigh who's spent the night on your floor.

Today is going to be one of your good days. You can feel it.

You quietly pad to the living room and push back the sliding door to your tiny balcony and breathe in the morning mist. You rest your elbows on the railing and overlook the street below.

Your memory isn't very good to begin with. Coupled with all the distractions of your condition, it's completely slipped your mind that the railing needs replacement. You don't recall until it gives on you and you're sent falling over the edge.

The air is stolen from your lungs, wind slapping your face, the concrete rushing up and you—


End file.
